


To Boldly Go

by spacejargon



Series: Happy Hour [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 13:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Being drunk is...easier, Arthur believes, than being honest.





	To Boldly Go

His stomach sloshes like a too full water barrel, only it’s brine and filled with slippery, slick eels that Arthur had once caught the sight—and smell—of in an odd little foreign marketplace. Made him gag, they did, sitting in the sun dangling on hooks, more discoloring the murky water of the barrel they dripped over.

Nose wrinkling as his stomach turns, he tucks back into the gin in a half-empty flask. It’s not the best, closer to rotgut than anything substantial, but for all intents and purposes of tonight, he reckons it’s just fine. Half of the flask is in his stomach and he’s sure there’s room for more, pushing aside the nausea and the burn of his stomach reminding him he’s too old to be drinking like this.

“You okay, Arthur?” Charles touches his shoulder. Just a light press of fingers, enough to make Arthur fall backwards on the log he’s sitting on. Charles’ fingers sink into his shoulder, keeping him steady. Trying to keep him afloat, warm fire in front of him and a sinking chill that grows when Charles pulls his hand away.

“’m fine,” Arthur sighs, shuddering at the memory of the eels. John laughed and laughed when Arthur turned his nose up at the sight of them, kept laughing when he’d offered to buy Arthur one and Arthur nearly lost the contents of his stomach right then and there.

He did, staggering down an alleyway with the black, slimy things in his mind, feeling them slither down his throat, sweating brine and bile. He’d been so sick that not even a drink could fix his stomach, refusing to say anything when Hosea found him hunched over and stayed when Arthur threw up on the older man’s boots.

Charles makes a noise like he gets he’s only bothering Arthur—except he’s not, not until he’s turning to walk away, off to who knows where.

He cranes, stumbling over words and his balance, swaying in place. It’s late enough for his drunkenness not to be too much of an issue. But Miss Grimshaw is out there somewhere, so he’s a little more cautious. “Where’re ya goin’?”

Charles stops, turns to glance over his shoulder. But he shakes his head, bidding Arthur a good night. Then he keeps walking, disappearing into the trees.

 _Don’t,_ his drunken mind thinks for him, whispering a hint of sobriety. _Don’t._ He chews on the word like tack, waiting for it to break down into something easier to swallow. Wonders if—

 _No._ His fingers may be shaking and there’s an imprint of where the heat of Charles had marked his shoulder, but he’s not that stupid. Might be dumber than a sack of rocks and denser than the board big enough to crack his thick skull open. But no, he’s not hopeless.

Out on the outer lip of camp, he finds himself in the company of horses while the rest of the camp has turned in for the night. Can’t blame them, as it’s probably midnight by now and the moon cuts an imposing figure high above his head. Like a pale eye unblinking, staring down at the one man that just can’t get it together and figure himself out before he turns himself inside-out looking for a reason.

On the edge of a bad stomachache going sour, Arthur turns in the direction Charles went. The flask against his boot is still there, less appealing. At the same time, more so when he thinks back to Charles, disappearing without a word.

It’s not dignified, but never has Arthur been one for distinction. He’s a foul bastard with a sour gut and lacks the mirth of Uncle. Just as ugly, he reckons, and then scowls into the dirt when he thinks it. He’s not wrong.

He misses the crunch of leaves signaling someone’s approach, far too open and too drunk to do much if someone slips up behind him and holds a knife to his throat. Serves him right, he muses, and reaches to tip back the rest of his sour gin until he can replace the warmth Charles left behind.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, and Arthur doesn’t even have the good graces to lift his head. Instead, he grunts, or he makes a sound like one. Hard to tell when everything is swimming.

His thoughts on his tongue are just that: slippery, slick, wriggling in brine long after death and creeping up his throat. The taste makes him cough alone, the texture the stuff of nightmares he hasn’t had for a good long while. Blackened flesh like rubber, smelling of rot despite the salt it’d been packed in, making him gag—

Charles finds him at the absolute worst of times. He’s near Arthur now, across the fire. Firelight in his eyes, dark enough to swallow the sky whole and still remain the same.

“Hey, relax.” The words are stronger than Arthur’s patience. He promptly turns, emptying the contents of his stomach as his knees threaten to take him closer to the fire. He’s still gagging on the foul taste when Charles has his hands on his shoulders, holding Arthur up like he hasn’t just watched a sad excuse of a man make himself look real dumb.

Words are too tricky to get a solid grasp on. Charles, thankfully, speaks for him. “You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

Arthur stiffens, albeit loosely. He’s too loose and too cold to maintain any coherent shape besides wiping at his mouth. Tries, desperately, to rake his mind and remember what he’s just said. Wait, did he—?

“You’re loud enough to wake up the entire camp,” Charles answers and condemns him all the same. Instead of an insult like Arthur knows he deserves, Charles meets his eyes, sitting on his heels beside Arthur. “You okay, Arthur?”

“A lil’…” Arthur sniffs, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, “stupid, like…drank not enough, y’know?”

“I don’t think I do,” Charles talks around him with a slippery quality, smelling like soap and salt and smoke. Something different than the nose-burning reek of bad gin and Arthur’s own sour mouth. He keeps a hand on Arthur, as if not sure he can trust Arthur with himself. Arthur wouldn’t either. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Coherent enough to grasp onto what Charles is saying, Arthur shakes his head and remains firm when Charles pulls at his arm. “Nah, ‘m…’m good. Go do Charles stuff,” he flaps his hand in a wave, feeling oddly close to looking like Jack in the midst of a tantrum. “Listen, I ‘preciate the help, but I don’t need it.”

Charles raises a brow at him, hand slipping away. Arthur wants to grab it and hold it there, run his fingers over the scars that decorate the spidery fingers of Charles’ hand. Wants to feel the thickness of knotted scars where they meet smooth flesh, to feel the strength that could easily choke a man without much thought.

Instead, he lets Charles’ hand fall away, hearing the other sigh.

“Y’heard ‘nough from me whining about m’self,” Arthur keeps talking when his dumb mouth won’t stay shut like it should. “Don’t wanna…don’t wanna ruin your night any more than I already have.”

“You haven’t,” Charles intones, his voice blending with an inky spike of guilt that jabs Arthur between the ribs. God _damn_ it, he feels like an asshole now. “I won’t bother you, then.”

Eels swim in his stomach, turning and floating as they bob in a barrel of brine and salt, pickled into a slimy mush. Arthur swallows, no warmth in his veins and the fire no comfort to him and waits for Charles to leave.

He rises to his feet, a low murmur seeing him off as Charles steps over the log. Arthur doesn’t look to where he goes, knowing fully and truly that he’s blown it and he’s blown it bad.

Threading his fingers through his greasy hair, Arthur heaves a great sigh, contemplating everything he’s done, and then hisses through his teeth with a resignation to his fate.

Pushing himself up, he braces one hand on the log and clumsily gathers to his feet, feeling far too sober to continue wallowing in self-pity. He turns around, a tendril of something he won’t dare name wrapping around his throat and tugging, anchoring it in place as it reaches lower. When he doesn’t see Charles there, the man already gone once again, it dissipates and withers into a sad little afterthought of what could never have been.

He spits off to the side, staggering back into camp while attempting to make it look like he isn’t the world’s biggest fool. On the way in, he stops by Hosea’s tent shared with Charles and Bill, tries not to think about that fact, and catches his breath. So, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to down all that rotgut gin when ignoring the consequences of feeling like he’s drowning on dry land.

He steps forward, puts too much weight on his leg and nearly slips in place. Blindly reaching out to grab the edge of a box of whiskey to steady himself, he tries not to fall and make a bigger fool out of himself. Which doesn’t seem possible, but given his capacity for failure, it’s likely.

“Goddammit…” he sneers at himself, remembering to lower his voice when Hosea turns in his sleep just a few feet away. Stupid, _stupid_ fool he is.

It’s almost poetic if it wasn’t just as sad when he forgets to listen for anyone else still up and about.

“Arthur?”

The fresh smoke of a newly lit cigarette stings his nose pleasantly. He could go for one, if he could get his watery eyes to stop spinning in his head. Arthur breathes in—not too deeply or he’ll puke, as he’s learned the hard way—and tells himself not to turn around.

“Sorry, Charles,” he forces his mouth to move and make some noise. Something to explain what a fool he’s been. Doesn’t seem like Charles is the forgiving type, if Arthur squints and slathers his pride in _reality_ long enough to knock some sense into himself. And make sure he’s not voicing his thoughts out loud again. “I’ll leave you be. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Seconds tick by. Neither of them moves. Then, as if possessed by stupidity bleeding into confidence, Arthur turns on his heels to face Charles. Sways in place but holds firm. Charles is watching him, though with concern or disinterest Arthur can’t say he knows.

“I, uh…” words come to mind, but don’t make it out. Instead, they dry up in his throat like the humidity of Lemoyne’s swamps evaporating in the New Austin sun.

Boldly, he steps forward.

Charles doesn’t back up.

He reaches out, like offering a hand to a mustang but knowing Charles is far more dangerous than a spooked horse. Just as big, with broad shoulders and thick ropes of muscle framing every inch of him, but far more dangerous.

His fingers touch Charles’ shoulder, curling into the polka dot shirt he always wears around camp. For a brief second, he figures he’ll miss this closeness, thrown away in the pursuit of luxuries a man like him cannot afford.

Charles looks like he means to say something, lips parting with a low hum on his breath. Arthur, on the other hand, leans in impulsively, and kisses him.

The taste of tobacco and the bitter bite of nicotine are on the breath he steals from Charles. Carefully, or with as much caution as a blindly drunk fool can manage, he covers Charles’ lips with his own.

It only lasts for a few seconds. Arthur has had more than enough experience with kissing, though there’s a slight difference with stubble scraping against his cheek and the feeling of Charles not kissing him back. Usually, the people he’s kissed pretended they wanted him to, but he knows he’s wrong. The thought poisons him and twists in his stomach, strangling the eels he’s swallowed, and lines every inch of him with salt.

Then, as if nothing ever happened, Charles pulls away, swallowing, and fixes Arthur with a look he doesn’t recognize.

There are a thousand different ways Charles could kill him. He has every right to be furious—kissed by a drunk idiot, but a _man,_ nevertheless. Could be in danger of not just ridicule from the camp but if word spreads of him supposedly involved in deviancy, it could be a higher price on his head. Arthur has singlehandedly doomed himself to a life of knowing Charles will hate him for this and the guilt is a crushing, ugly thing. He could blame it on being too stupidly drunk, of being too close to Charles and seeing comfort in taking advantage of things that are too pretty, but never his to touch.

Something tells him Charles won’t care for any excuse.

“Sorry,” Arthur spits out quickly, and then like a coward, turns on his heels and doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I have no restraint.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
